


i think you're a little bit in love with me

by thispapermoon



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: (and more than kissing), (that means kissing), F/F, based off that scene in the bedroom in the trailer, but a whole lot of, encouraging the incorrigible, i can't wait for these two to get into kisschief, is craven, my gay heart, not as much striding about as i would have liked, the real scene will be EVERYTHING, though the real thing is going to be....everything, warm and tender feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 21:44:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18725578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispapermoon/pseuds/thispapermoon
Summary: I have hoped - nay - dared to dream. Lost and wakened and then dreamed and lost again.But here she lays below her. Below her and unresisting - even with far less wooing than is common for such a seduction - far less skirting about the issue at hand before Anne Lister is allowed to skirtupthe issue with her hand.Here is Ann Walker. Eyes bright. Lips parted. A curious girl.





	i think you're a little bit in love with me

Miss Walker.

Miss Walker with her back against the door. With lips parted, hand pressed against white shirtsleeve.

Pressed firmly, pressed not in resistance, but in invitation.

Miss Walker, far more eager than anticipated.

_What small hands she has. What delicate features. And yet when she presses back against me, what firmness in her determination. What a sudden confidence._

Anne Lister had expected a seduction. And here she is, the one seduced.

There was some thought - before - before when Miss Walker’s eyes had alighted upon Anne’s own - when she’d taken up her bloodied fingers after that event with that damnable paper knife - there had been a thought then - a brief thought. A hope.

A hope that a girl like Miss Walker could indeed be a girl like Miss Lister.

For Miss Walker had whispered that any momento gifted to her by the likes of Anne Lister was sure to hold a sweet and sentimental value. Though, surely, she could not known have then that the desire was to gift her with kisses. Surely she could not have known of Anne’s desire to play a pretty game with a pretty girl (and to play it with an experienced hand, indeed). And yet, now, as her lips press against Anne’s own, she wonders if is she who has been played in this game.

No.

Not played.

Miss Walker is far too sincere to ever bend the strings of life to her will, Anne muses.

Her will.

Her will was not to be accounted for when she sought to bend her to this way of thinking.

_Thought I, here’s a pliant little thing, indeed._

But it is she who has been render pliant. She who is now beholden to Miss Walker's will - even as her lips part below her own - even as Miss Walker presses her back and away. Pushes her away - not with any sort of repulsion - but with warm and steady supplication.

And it is Miss Walker who throws herself back upon the bed, Anne Lister who can only follow willingly. Anne Lister who can only offer a doff of gentlemanly chivalry - nearly belated - as she curls her arm about Miss Walker’s back to guide her down.

_I have hoped - nay - dared to dream. Lost and wakened and then dreamed and lost again._

But here she lays below her. Below her and unresisting - even with far less wooing than is common for such a seduction - far less skirting about the issue at hand before Anne Lister is allowed to skirt _up_ the issue with her hand.  

Here is Ann Walker. Eyes bright. Lips parted. A curious girl.

No, very much a woman.

Anne’s stomach contracts at the thought. Twenty-nine and some odd months. Some would call Miss Walker an old maid. Some have called Miss Lister worse.

_“Have you ever done this before?”_

_“Of course not.”_

She kisses her again, just to be sure she really can. To be sure she won’t wake up dreaming in her lonely bed in Shibden Hall, hand down her drawers and _Eliza_ or _Marianna_ or _Vere_ on her tongue.

 _Vere_.

How distant she seems now. How like a dream that slips through her fingers (she slips Miss Walkers sash through her fingers, tugs it once, and pulls it free) to think of Vere now. What a chase Vere gave her. And what foolishness it seems now that she has a girl as warm and wanting as Marianna had once been below her on the bed. A girl who has clasped her hands on either side of Anne’s face and is regarding her with wide, soft eyes.

“I could not be prevailed upon - “ she starts, stuttering in that way she so often does. Less now that before - when Anne had found her in her drawing room with the Priestleys -  or before that, at Anne’s first visit to Crow’s Nest when Ann’s sister had chattered on and on and Ann had stayed so timidly silent. “I couldn’t be prevailed - “

Anne draws back, stomach tight, collar tighter. A noose about her throat. “Prevailed upon to be defiled by the likes of me?” She sits back on her heels, a sour pit taking up a familiar place within her stomach. She wipes her hands on her skirts and feels ashamed.

She doesn’t expect Miss Walker to frown at her so, or to haul her in by her shoulders, nor to cling to her shirtsleeves with such tremulous desperation, fingers winding through fabric to hold her fast.

“No.” There’s a sharp look across Miss Walker’s face, frustration perhaps. “No. I was _going to say_ that I could not be prevailed upon to find myself like this in the arms of a man.”

Miss Lister stares at Miss Walker.

“Couldn’t you?”

Miss Walker shifts below her, her fingers not forgoing their grip against the collar of her shirt. “As you said, I’m a woman of substantial, independent means. If I were to marry, I would have already, don’t you think? But I knew I could not possibly. And now I have alighted upon the reason why.”

Anne Lister stares at Ann Walker.

“And what is your reasoning?”

There’s hope flaring in her belly. A tenderness, too. Sharp in it’s unexpected intensity.

“The same reason as you have not been prevailed upon to marry, I should think,” Miss Walker whispers, her eyes searching. She looks up at her, head cocked, cheeks flaming.

Anne inches closer, nose brushing against the pretty nose of Miss Walker. “Then I think,” she whispers back, lips inches from Miss Walker’s own, “we might perhaps -” she tilts her head until their mouths are nearly slotted together, breath mingling, “- perhaps, we might have an understanding?”

Miss Walker gives a shiver, lips a little more than a ghost against Anne’s own both from the angle and her movement. She falls back upon the bed and lays gazing upward, ringlets scattering, teeth worrying her bottom lip.

“You must have patience with me, Anne. I don’t for one second believe this is the first time you’ve - you’ve -”

Her blush is a magnificent sight to behold, and Anne leans over her, thighs on either side of Miss Walker’s prone form. Her lips find her ear and she breathes there for a moment, drawing up Miss Walker's anticipation. “Then you can at least be sure,” she whispers finally, “that I am very, very good at it.”

There is a squeak from Miss Walker, an unmistakable squirm and tilt of the hips, and Anne lets her lips part over the lobe of Miss Walker’s ear, sucks it into her mouth before finding it with her tongue. She kisses lower, smiling into Miss Walker’s skin as Miss Walker clutches at her vest with desperate hands.

It’s then up her throat with hot, reverent kisses, up her jaw as well until they’re eye to eye and Anne can brush their noses together once more. The afternoon light slants down upon them on the bed. The gold-hued room gives the impression that they are in the arms of the sun itself. Blessed. Beholden to one another.

Once again tenderness rises in Anne’s chest and she cannot help the smile that curls at the very edges of her mouth, can’t help but sigh as Ann Walker tugs her in and kisses her as though drowning in a sun-strewn river.

_Thought I, this is a holy thing._

Buttons, and corsets, and stockings. They navigate their way from them as though each motion holds a secret, as if each removed item binds them in a pact. And Anne supposes perhaps it does. Wonders if she is about to make love to for the first time to what might be her wife. Wonders if what they are doing is as binding as an alter. Wonders all this as she kisses the inside of Miss Walker's wrist if she might as well being saying _to have and to hold_.

And Miss Walker kneels upon the bed in her chemise, quite naked beneath that, quite a vision in the falling light. She holds Anne’s body against her own, until Anne’s shirtsleeves and the chemise the only barriers left betwixt them. She kisses her then with such sweet and tender longing that Anne can only shiver at her touch, undone by both emotion and physical sensation.

She slides back onto the bed, quite overcome. And then it is Miss Walker who sits astride her, knees on either side of Anne’s trembling body. They look at each other and Anne pushes the chemise up so that she can lay her hand flat upon the naked skin of Ann Walker’s back. She thinks of the rumors. Of a poorly spine. An invalid.

 _In sickness and in health_.

She presses her hand more firmly, feels Ann Walker tremble at her touch. Feels the knobs of her spine and traces over and along the curvature, feeling no ailment other than a posture that is often meek. But her position is anything but subservient now as Miss Walker sits atop her, straight backed with sunlight turning her golden.

Like a goddess.

Like the divine.

 _For richer or poorer_.

Anne Lister hopes it is for richer. But the pragmatism of her mind is slipping, the lonely corners of her heart turning towards the light, opening in surrender as Miss Walker shines above her.

“I don’t know what comes next,” Miss Walker whispers.

And so Anne tugs her down and twines their legs together. “My hope is that it shall be you.”

Miss Walker’s brow furrows, it’s apparent she cannot understand the drollery, but she will. Soon enough.

Turning her to her back, Anne draws the cord of the chamise away. Traces a finger down between Miss Walker’s breasts and parts the fabric, following down to the extent the parition allows open mouthed and lingering kisses. She takes care to move slowly, as to not startle, though when she takes Miss Walker’s breast into her mouth, the fabric of the chemise rough against her tongue, Miss Walker arches and makes a small sound, her hand in Anne’s hair, her breath turning rough.

“Have you ever seen the stars?” Anne Lister murmurs, and Miss Walker, pink cheeked and still so innocent, shakes her head. “Would you like to?”

“You mean in Switzerland? With you?”

Anne laughs, drawing back and surveying how the fabric has turned sheer from the wetness of her tongue. How she can see the pebble of a rosy nipple through the cloth. How it makes her stomach tighten with desire, her breath catch in her throat.

“With me,” she assures her, and moves to the other side, scraping along the peak with her teeth this time until Miss Walker is once again squirming beneath her, hips seeking something she surely does not not understand. “But not in Switzerland.”

She slides a hand down and cups Miss Walker through her drawers, watching with satisfaction as first Miss Walker’s eyebrows fly up to her golden hairline, and then with enjoyment as her head tilts back and her hips surge down against her hand.

“Oh, _oh_.” She shifts against Anne, seeking friction, her mind certainly not understanding what her body already does. And Anne kisses her, thrilled that Miss Walker has not pulled away. That though her mind is sheltered, her curious nature has her rolling her hips against the firmness of Anne’s palm. “I feel so strange,” Miss Walker whispers. And Anne kisses her again for being good.

“It is I who can make you see the stars,” Anne promises, and Miss Walkers eyes open slowly. She reaches out and touches Anne’s cheek, a look of awe across her face that Anne - experienced though she is - fears she hasn’t felt since bedding Marianna.

“I want to be better than those other women,” Miss Walker says suddenly. She looks fractious and her hand goes to Anne’s hair, clumsily and unintentionally tugging - or, Anne later considers, perhaps it is not unintentional in the precision with which she drawn Anne into a state of utter breathlessness - and Miss Walker stares up at her, suddenly not meek at all, but perhaps a little spoiled.

“I think they must have hurt you.”

 _Not spoiled then at all_.

 _Pure of heart_.

There are tears suddenly in Anne’s eyes, not just from the pain of having her hair tugged.

“I want -” Miss Walker tries. “I want -” she shakes her head and Anne waits - has learned to wait with Miss Walker - to lend her the opportunity to speak without being spoken over. But Miss Walker seems to hardly know the words herself. She shakes her head again and Anne takes pity on the poor soul and kisses her.

Their tongues meet and Miss Walker bears down against Anne’s palm.

She can feel a sticky wetness. Longs to feel it more fully.

Her hand removes itself and creeps to the draw of Miss Walker’s drawers, stealing inside to find hot, slick flesh.

“I want -” Miss Walker whimpers again, and she’s tugging at Anne’s shirtsleeves, ranching up the fabric even as Anne freezes.

There’s indecision.

A fear of baring herself too soon, of being vulnerable in this way.

But Miss Walker sits, pulling her own chemise away and suddenly Anne can only think of being skin to skin. Of properly making love with Miss Walker, not taking her for a tumble like a afternoon romp in Paris (a tumble with a woman possessing well endowed means of a different sort).

She removes her hand from Miss Walker’s drawers and allows her to guide the shirt over her head with careful fingers. Crosses her arms about her chest in uncharacteristic shyness and bows her head.  

_How can I so fearsomely go tête-à-tête with the Rawson brothers and their ilk, but this divinity has me timid like a blushing schoolgirl?_

She pushes the memory of Eliza - her own school girl days, her own first love - from her mind. Tries to forget being all of fourteen and naked as the day with another for the first time. Fails and dwells instead on the soft, confused touches. On the utter, disarming longing.

Her own tender foray into this world of passion rises within her breast, and she allows Miss Walker to draw her down to the bed, to kiss her sweetly until her arms unfurl and they’re coupled at last. They both are called upon to make sounds at the sensation, at the soft, warm meeting of skin.

Anne can feel the down of the bed below her. Finer than Shibden. Finer than that of most ladies’ beds. Miss Walker is moving restlessly against her and Anne takes pity on her once more, guiding her drawers down to reveal long legs and feet as tiny and delicate as Miss Walker’s slim and pretty hands.

Miss Walker gasps a little.

Blushes and bites her lip. But she doesn’t pull away and instead whispers _please, Anne_ , _please_ , until Anne’s fingers are back between her thighs, parting her tenderly. She’s unprepared for the heat or the wetness she finds there. Her own lip goes between her teeth to stifle the sound that rises in her as she touches Miss Walker, as she circles the place she knows will make her flush and cry out. She watches in satisfaction as her fingers find their mark and Miss Walker does just that.

She works her higher, watches with parted lips and wide eyes as Miss Walker’s head thrashes to-and-fro on the satin pillow. She moves above her and delights in the way Miss Walker grips at the muscle in her arm, catching hold there as Anne holds herself aloft and moves her fingers lower.

“Perhaps you might feel a bit of pain,” she murmurs. She can feel the liquid heat of Miss Walker’s center but holds off. “I shall strive to be as gentle as I can be.”

“What are you - ?”

Anne slips a finger inside and Miss Walker throws her head back.

“Oh - _oh._ ”

“Are you alright?”

There’s a husk in her voice, a low timber as her mind fills with hazy pleasure at being inside Miss Walker at last.

“I am. Oh, oh, Anne -” Miss Walker’s hips move of their own accord, a welcome sign, and Anne slowly pulls her finger nearly free before sliding in again once more. Miss Walker holds her gaze this time, that same look of hungry curiosity across her features. It melts away into something more when Anne carefully curls her finger. “ _Anne_.”

It’s a whimper, nearly a plea, and Anne repeats the motion, backing out and re-entering, her thumb brushing up over Miss Walker’s heat until she’s gasping. They fall into a rhythm until Anne determines Miss Walker is near enough towards pleasure to take more, and carefully adds a second finger, slowly entering her even as Miss Walker winces a little and cries out.

She stills and soothes her. They  kiss for a long moment, Anne mimicking her previous ministrations with her tongue, licking into Miss Walker’s mouth and working her up until she’s all but shivering around her fingers. She resumes their love-making then, nearly whimpering herself as her breasts brush against Miss Walker’s own with her every thrust.

Sweat is gathering between them and Anne pauses and shifts, pulling Miss Walker’s knee up so that it presses along her own side, opening her for greater pleasure. She is rewarded when Miss Walker tosses her head back and fills the room with small and breathy noises. She’s nearly frantic now, writhing below Anne on the bed, and Anne takes great care to curl her fingers just so, to move her thumb more directly.

When Miss Walker comes it’s more beautiful than springtime. More electrifying than Rome at Eastertide. More dazzling than the stars she’s promised her.

And though she tries very hard to pull away and brush at her tears before they can be seen, Miss Walker pulls her in and kisses them away instead. She’s breathless. And her body is still shuddering around the tips of Anne’s fingers. But she’s calm in a way that Anne does not expect from her. In a way that Anne herself is not.

“No, I could _never_ -” Miss Walker manages, gasping a little, “be prevailed to do _anything_ like that with a man.”

There’s such certainly in her tone. Such utter assurance.

And Anne buries her face in Miss Walker’s neck least she see the influx of new tears at witnessing the reflection of her own most precious convictions.

“Only with you,” Miss Walker murmurs, and her hand strokes down over Anne’s hair. “I only want to have this with you.” She must be smiling, for Anne can hear it in her voice. “And I think, as you so often are, that you must be right.”

Collecting herself, Anne pulls back and gazes down at her. “On what matter?”

She’s unable to keep the tremor from her voice and winces.

But Miss Walker merely smiles, looking for all the world more relaxed than Anne has ever seen her.

“Well, you see,” she rubs her thumb over Anne’s lower lip and her eyes are bright in the dying sun. “I think I am a little bit in love with you.”

She tugs Anne down until they’re nose to nose.

“And I think you’re a little bit in love with me.”


End file.
